


Perfume

by Avice



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, F/M, Forgiveness, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Pining, Post Reichenbach, Romance, Sex, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-19 20:40:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avice/pseuds/Avice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has married Mary, but still dreams of Sherlock. When Sherlock returns his feelings are conflicted and it takes time to forgive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Her skin felt different. Surprisingly not softer, but more polished, cared for. Less natural. 

Her scent a mix of vanilla, lemon, flowers. 

She hardly sweated or if she did, the aroma was faint. Requiring intimacy to be felt at all. It was not the kind of fragrance that pulled you close after a run or a fright, an irresistible force certain of its capability to entrap. Alluring. Beckoning to touch. A master commanding its puppet. No. 

Her scent didn’t make John lose all reason, tearing clothes off in the backseat of a cab. Not caring, not caring at all. Forgetting everything around him when he smelled it. Forced him to touch, kiss, yearn. Never getting enough.

Hers was a sweet scent, soothing. Safe. 

At night he had had the habit of burying his face against Sherlock’s back, between his shoulder blades. Filling his senses with Sherlock. The skin, the soft skin against his face, lips on it. Breathing in Sherlock as if air was unnecessary. His body pressed close, as close as possible. Melting into each other.

Falling asleep in a world that consisted only of Sherlock. Letting the calm rise and fall of his back lull him to sleep. Hand holding on to his buttock. 

Sherlock a protective wall he had hid behind. 

“Even in your sleep you watch out for me, John,” he had said.

John roller over on his back, let go of her arm he had been stroking. She always took him back to Sherlock. Even after all this time. 

Her differences reminders of his qualities. Highlighting them. A laughter bringing back memories of another laughter. Her kisses accentuating other kisses. 

He loved her. 

His love for her recalling another love. The first one. The one that determines love. Determines a kiss. Gives meaning to all these words, so that whatever comes after will be a copy. A reproduction of the original. 

He caressed her hair. Kissed her temple softly.

She didn’t know. John hadn’t been able to tell her. 

At first it had not mattered. Just a bit of fun, no need to spill all secrets. A bit of comfort, no need to be honest. 

He had almost cried the first time. First time of feeling skin against himself again. Different skin. 

Not worse, not better. Different. 

Later, when they fell in love, when John could look into her eyes and say ‘love’, he had cheated. Told himself she didn’t need to know. That what’s past is past. He didn’t want the details on her lovers either. 

So he kept it from her. Kept the most important thing about himself, about his past from her. Protected it. 

She asked about him sometimes.  
“How was it to live with a lunatic like that? He was crazy, wasn’t he?”

John turned away, to the window, to his paper, to look at the tea in his mug.  
“He was, yeah.”

Couldn’t keep the tenderness off his voice. Couldn’t explain, couldn’t say more. _My lunatic. He was my lunatic. You don’t know the half of it. Off his rocker the man was. I loved him. I loved him more than._ He couldn’t say those words. Even thinking about them made him choke up. 

“You were close, weren’t you?”

“We lived and worked together, so, yes.”

Close. Closest. One. No matter how close, never close enough.

“Wasn’t it tiring? I mean, I love you, but even so I wouldn’t want to work together. Everybody needs some time for themselves, don’t they? And he was your boss, after all, wasn’t he?”

The tea twirling in the mug. 

“Well, I did have my own room.”

She laughed. Obviously, that’s not what she had meant.  
“He was lucky to have found an assistant like you. Not many people have your patience and loyalty.”

Assistant? 

“He was a great man.”  
 _I was lucky he found me._

“So you keep telling me,” she smiled, caressed his back.

He couldn’t tell her. Didn’t want to. Guarded Sherlock’s memory jealously.

Every time he touched her, he betrayed her. Reminisced of another body. Of another touch. 

Thoughts returning to a bed with expensive, luxurious sheets. 

When he held her nipple in his mouth, tickled it with his tongue, it wasn’t hers anymore. 

Kissing her stomach, he thought of a more muscular one. 

When he had her in his mouth, squirming, moaning, tearing his hair, calling his name, he thought of another voice, lower, posher. The litany of surprising, imaginative expletives. How those hips had tensed under him. 

The taste of another heat. Sweat.

He wanted to eat her. Loved to make her come, force her to it. Adored her soft, round curves. The beautiful breasts. The way she shivered under his touch.

He thought of an angular, firm body. A body as exceptional as the man in it. 

When he lay in bed next to her, listening to hear steady breathing, feeling her warm against him, he remembered what it had been like to press his face between those shoulder blades. 

John got up quietly. Closed the bedroom door softly. 

Downstairs he opened the cupboard under the stairs, took out the box from under the hoover and her shoes. Opened it. On top some old bits and pieces for cover. On the bottom a blue, striped silk dressing gown. 

Gently he fondled the cool fabric. 

The scent was gone. It was only a dressing gown now. 

He pressed it to his cheek, closed his eyes. _Sherlock, I miss you. Come back to me._

 _I love Mary._

To find love twice was more luck than any man deserved.


	2. Chapter 2

The last patient of the day was a temporary services appointment. Sigursen. Norwegian perhaps? 

John always liked a chat about the different health care systems. Oddly enough it made him feel patriotic.

Whatever services they had in Norway, Mr Sigursen clearly hadn’t been making the best of them. He had a hunched back, barely any of his teeth left and a nasty, persistent cough. 

“Please, take a seat Mr Sigursen. How can I help you?” 

“Ah, doctor, well. Doctor Watson, is it?”

“That’s right. What seems to be the trouble?”

Mr Sigursen’s eyes took in the room, a slight tremor in his hands. This would take long. Not a simple “prescription and out” customer. John stifled a yawn. 

“Oh, look at that, that’s quite an old volume you got on your shelf. Mid-nineteenth century, isn’t it? Hope you’re not still actively using it,” Sigursen let out a strange, deep laugh and perked up.

John turned to look at his books, but couldn’t make out which one he meant. They were all old. Everything current was on his computer.

“Yes, some of them are practically antiquities.”

He looked back at the man. He was gone. 

John felt dizzy. His head was spinning. 

He reached out, grabbed Sherlock’s arm. It couldn’t be. 

Bright lights in his vision, ears humming louder and louder. Trouble breathing. He was passing out, held tighter on to Sherlock. 

Couldn’t make sense of it. Sherlock’s lips moving, saying something.

\---

He came to on his own examination bed. Fingers still clutching firmly on an arm. A face close to his. 

“Sherlock?”

John put his palm around the nape. Felt the dark curls in his fingers. Pulled the lips to his. 

He whimpered in relief, grief. These lips.

“Sherlock,” he whispered.

An affirmative into him. The familiar tongue. 

How he had longed for this mouth. For its taste. The feel. 

A kiss awakening him. Not reminding. Being. 

A kiss he remembered. Knew. Had known. 

John sat up abruptly, pushed Sherlock away.  
“What the hell… where…? Bloody hell, Sherlock. Where have you been?”

A boyish smile on Sherlock’s face, pride in himself for having been able to surprise John.

“I was – .”

“I’m married, Sherlock!”

The reality flooding in. Now destabilised, so certain in the morning. 

John didn’t know what was happening. He did know one thing.

“Married!” John repeated.

“I know. What of it?” Sherlock shrugged casually.

“What of it?! What of it! I am _married_ , Sherlock! Where the hell were you?!” 

Two things: _what did you leave me for? And: look at what I’ve done while you were gone._ He didn’t know which one was more important.

“I was in Tibet, Vietnam, Laos… but surely you’ll just divorce her?” Sherlock said puzzled.

“I… I love her, Sherlock. Why… what have you done? How did you…?”

Everything had changed.

“Love her? No. No. You love me. Only me,” Sherlock stated trying to understand what the problem was.

“No. I mean, yes. I love you. But I love her, too. I’m married. You were… you were dead, Sherlock.”

“But I’m not anymore. I wasn’t. It was just to fool Moriarty’s men,” Sherlock explained as if to a child. “You’re mine. Mine, John.”

John moaned, put his head in his hands. _I’m married. Where were you?_

“Why did you do this to me? How could you?” he said quietly.

“I had to, John. You would all be dead otherwise.”

“We’d be all dead if in the past three _years_ you would have contacted me to tell me you’re alive, huh?”

Sherlock had no reply.

“We’d all be dead, if… if… you would have… you knew when I got engaged, didn’t you?”

The look on Sherlock’s face was answer enough.

“You knew. Of course you knew. And you did nothing,” John’s tone ice cold. 

There was a knock on the door.  
“Doctor Watson, is everything all right?” a voice enquired.

John cleared his throat: “Yes, yes. Fine. Just… you can leave. I’ll be a minute. I’ll lock up.”

“And Mr Sigursen’s file?” 

“I’ll handle it. Thank you, Paul!”

Footsteps receded down the corridor.

“You let me get married, Sherlock,” he said, telling himself it was true. Didn’t want to believe it.

“It doesn’t mean anything. You love me.”

“Of course it means something!” 

Sherlock was starting to look worried.

“It means everything! I wouldn’t get married if it meant nothing.” 

“I thought… but she’s a woman, John.”

“Yes.”

They stood in silence. 

Sherlock, unable to understand. Marriage, a piece of paper. What did it matter?

John, struggling to accept. Watching your lover marry someone else and do nothing. 

“I want to hear the whole story,” John finally spoke. “But first I want to go home. I need to think.”

“Yes, let’s go home.”

“No, Sherlock, I mean my home. With Mary.”

“You’re not going to… stay with her? You can’t!”

“Can’t? For once I don’t think you get to tell me what to do.” 

“But you are… coming back to me, aren’t you?” Sherlock’s eyes were wide, shocked.

“I don’t know what I’ll do, Sherlock. I need to talk to Mary.”

“You’re mine. You promised.”

“I did. Then you died.” _And then you lied. For three years._ “You can’t have expected me to wait. I had nothing to wait for. You were dead.”

“I came back,” Sherlock said. “I didn’t expect you to wait, of course not. That would’ve been completely unreasonable.” He took a hold of John’s hand. “But I have to have you back, John. You are mine.” 

“I need to go,” John released his hand. “I’ll come by tomorrow, okay? We’ll talk. You can tell me all about Tibet and Laos.”

He held the door open for Sherlock.

“John. Please.”

“See you tomorrow.”

Bewildered, defeated Sherlock walked out. Alone. 

He was back.


	3. Chapter 3

The warmth of home, smell of dinner stew greeted John. He hung his wet coat to dry.

“Sherlock is back,” he said sitting down in his chair.

“What do you mean?” Mary asked astonished.

“I mean, he wasn’t dead. It was all just… a game to him,” he swallowed. Closed his eyes tight. Willed no tears.

Mary was speechless. As anyone would be.

John opened his eyes.

“I need to… I need to tell you something, honey.”

“What is it?”

“Please, sit down.”

“What is it?” she sat down.

“Me and Sherlock… we were… more than colleagues and friends. We were lovers. I loved him. I love him.”

Mary laughed nervously.  
“What do you mean? You… he was infuriating, wasn’t he? You said he really got on your nerves.”

“He did. But I still loved him.”

“Well. I had no idea.”  
She was quiet. Taking it all in. Her husband had had a man as a lover.   
“Hm, I don’t suppose it matters, does it? I mean we both have our pasts.”

“He wants me back.”

“What?”

“He wants me back.”

“What does that mean? Wants you back? We’re married, for heaven’s sake. What does he think? That he can just waltz in and order people about?”

“I’m sorry, Mary. I… I don’t know what I’ll do. I love him.” 

Mary didn’t understand the words at first. Noticed only how helpless her husband suddenly looked. His determined, reliable features uncommonly vulnerable. 

“Don’t know? You don’t know… what? Whether you’ll continue in your marriage or go back to your… gay lover? That’s ridiculous!” 

John’s eyes almost begging. 

“I love you, Mary. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. He was… he was dead and now he’s not…”

The rain rattled on the windows. Dinner would be ready soon.

“I’ll go. I’ll stay in a hotel to figure this out.”

“No, you bloody well won’t,” Mary said angry. “We’re married. You’re my husband. When there’s a crisis in _our marriage_ , you stay here and sort it out. You can sleep on the sofa, but you are staying in this house.”

John nodded. 

“I’m trying to wrap my head around this. I can’t imagine what you’re going through,” Mary relented. “I’ll give you your space to work it out. But you’re sleeping here.”

“I’m so sorry, Mary. It’s – it’s so like him to do something like this. I never thought… I would’ve never put you through this.”

Mary came to him. Sat in his lap and wrapped her arms around him. Kissed the top of his head. Caressed him soothingly. 

“Are you going to see him?” she asked.

“Yes. I’ll go over tomorrow. To hear where he’s been.”  
 _Mary, I don’t know what I’ll do. What I should do. I love him. I love you. He is my life. You are my rock. He lied to me. He betrayed me. You saved me._

“All right,” she said and then, adding: ”John, I can… I can still trust you, right?”

_I have missed him. I miss him now. I have kissed him._

“Yes, I’m not going to... Do anything. I won’t.”

“Why hadn’t you told me about him before?”

“Because… he was dead. It didn’t matter.”

“Clearly he mattered very much. I wish I’d known. I never quite understood…”

She stroked his cheek. 

“I want to meet him.”

“Yeah, you should,” John kissed her. Got up, left her sitting in the chair and walked over to the window. “You’ll hate him. I mean, even if… You’d still hate him. He doesn’t come off as very likable.”

“He must be quite extraordinary for you to have loved him.”

_He was. He is. I still do, Mary._

\---

John woke up screaming. Slowly becoming aware of Mary’s hurried steps in the stairs.

“Honey? Are you all right?”

He sat up, took a deep breath. She, worried, in the doorway.

“Yes. Yes. Just a nightmare.”

She sat next to him on the sofa, stroked his back.

“You haven’t had one of those in awhile.”

No, he hadn’t. And one like this he had never had. 

It had been Sherlock. Not soldiers, but Sherlock bleeding in the field, calling for him. He hadn’t been able to move, his limbs heavy. The pain on his shoulder blinding him. Sherlock being shot at, needing him.

“No,” he shook his head. “Sorry I woke you.” 

He knew what he had to do. Was afraid to do it. Afraid of all the pain.

“I’ve never heard you shout like that. Thought something had happened.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll make a cup of tea. You get back to sleep.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah, I’m all right.”   
He caressed her thigh in confirmation. 

Hesitantly she got up. She would have preferred her husband next to her. But John had made his bed downstairs without saying a word about it. Resigned to it.


	4. Chapter 4

Baker Street. Just as he remembered. 

“Is everything exactly where it was?” John asked.

“Yes.”

Sherlock poured the tea. 

“I haven’t found the skull or my dressing gown, though. Wouldn’t happen to know about them?”

“Erm, no. No.”

It was highly unlikely Sherlock didn’t know precisely where they were.

Mary thought the skull was creepy, but tolerated it in their living room as one of those gross things doctors must have.

“Hmm. Have to get a new robe then,” Sherlock said. 

He had already got one, of course, along with the rest of his wardrobe. Clothes didn’t stay fresh for three years in a closet and he didn’t want to smell musty. 

“I see you didn’t bring your bags yet,” he remarked.

“Sherlock, you hid from me for three years. You let me get married. And now you expect me to just get over it because you’ve decided to come back.”

Sherlock found no fault in John’s summary of the situation.  
“Yes. That’s correct.”

“How long?”

“Hmm?”

“How long are you back for?”

“Oh, permanently, I expect.”

“And how am I supposed to trust that?”

“I have never lied to you, John.”

“Fair enough. I suppose the past three years you were just withholding information.”

“For your own protection, if that has any bearing in your case against me.”

“What did I need protection from? And now that we’re on it, how did you survive that fall?”

Sherlock told him. Told him about Moriarty, Moran, the fall, his scheme, about the jungle, about the mountains.

John watched him closely. The eyes shining with excitement, the self-satisfied smile he was trying to hide. The long fingers in the air, conducting his telling. The look on his face when John said ‘brilliant’.

“I’ve missed you,” John said without thinking.

“I know you have. I have missed you too. I have longed for you,” Sherlock stood up. Pulled John to him.

The lips he knew. Had always known. The body pressed against him. His body. That scent, pulling him in. 

“No, Sherlock, I can’t,” John said weakly. Hands resting on Sherlock’s chest, not managing to push him away.

“Why not? Clearly you’re physically capable. More than capable,” Sherlock mumbled, hand fondling John’s groin. Their breaths ragged.

“I can’t. I need to decide what to do,” John commanded enough self-control to pull away. 

“We can’t have sex till you’ve left Mary?”

“We can’t have sex till I’ve decided whether I’ll leave Mary.”

“You’ll leave her. Don’t see why you must drag it on. Harder for everybody,” Sherlock said confidently. 

“You have no idea what you’ve done, do you?”

“Obviously I know perfectly well all I’ve done.”

“What you’ve done to me. What you did to me,” John had trouble saying it out loud, the pain like a living thing in him, one he was used to carrying and now letting out: “how much you hurt me.” 

“I can’t know that. There is no objective measurement for such pain. Nobody can.”

“Mary does,” John couldn’t help gibing. 

“Then she is a liar,” Sherlock replied. 

_No, she’s just human._

“She is someone who doesn’t hurt the people she loves.”

“John, I will have you back. I have decided that. I came back for you. This pretty, compassionate, dull female of yours is nothing. She was a distraction while I was gone. You don’t need the domestic bliss. You need me,” he caressed John’s neck, “you want me.” Pressed his lips just under John’s ear. 

John trembled. 

“I need someone I can trust,” he said trying to keep his voice steady as Sherlock’s lips travelled on his neck. 

“Nonsense. You need excitement,” Sherlock muttered fingers opening John’s shirt.

Panting John withdrew from him.

“I have to go.”

“Like that? When it would be so easy to be more… comfortable. If you wouldn’t insist on being so stubborn,” Sherlock teased him.

“It’s called loyalty. Nothing you’d know anything about,” John said.

“No? Which one of us has been more loyal physically?”

“You were dead! And honestly, you’ve had no one in the past three years?”

“You are the only one I have ever wanted, only one I will ever want. I waited for you long before I even knew you. Three years was nothing to that. I don’t need just any body to keep me warm.” 

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s loyal, at least.”

There was no arguing with that.  
“I have to go.”

As the door of 221B closed behind him, John knew what he wanted. Knew what he must have. It wasn’t right. It was madness. He would have to give up everything he had. 

But he needed it.

\---

Mary had set up to meet Sherlock in a café. Unbiased territory. 

Awkwardly they shook hands and sat down. It was odd meeting without John, but perhaps easier for everybody considering the circumstances.

Everything had been easy so far, but once there, she didn’t know what she wanted to say. 

Sherlock saw no need to exchange pleasantries, nor was he hindered by decorum.  
“He is mine.”

“Excuse me?”

“John is mine. He was mine… first. I want him back.”

Mary was stunned.  
“Are you serious? You can’t just… claim ownership over people like that. ‘I saw him first’, that’s ludicrous.”

Of course he could. Why not? John belonged to him. Like he belonged to John.  
“Phrase it as you wish, but I need John back and I shall have him.”

Certainly no need for keeping up appearances then.

“He told me I would hate you,” Mary snorted.

Sherlock shrugged. Most people did. It had been an easy prediction for John to make. 

“He was right,” Mary continued. “Can’t imagine what he sees in you. Besides the looks.”

Sherlock had never thought about it either. John loved him. That sufficed. His reasons were a mixture of hormonal responses, emotional traumas and the rest. Sherlock was not very interested in the chemical processes of the brain at the moment.

“Must be my gentle nature,” he remarked. 

Mary laughed scornfully.  
“You have broken him. The day you came back… I really can’t imagine how he can have any love for you after what you’ve put him through. Heartless.” 

“Absolutely heartless,” she repeated.

“He is not broken. John is the strongest person I know,” Sherlock said, unsure why he felt the need to defend his actions.

“He is managing. I take care of him. And don’t go out of my way to hurt him.”

The argument was pointless. Mary was ready to defend her territory, but not give it up in order to save it.

“So how do you propose we solve this?” Sherlock asked, relationships being the only area where he could think other people knowing better.

Mary laughed astonished.  
“ _We_ are not going to solve this. It’s for John to solve. He must do what he feels right in his heart.”

“Heart?”

“I mean, he must decide who makes him happy. In the long run,” Mary said poignantly.

Sherlock had never presupposed to make John happy. It was impossible to make other people happy. Surely John would not base his decision on something so irrational?

“Hm. Well, it has been a pleasure meeting you, Mary,” he got up, shook her hand and left. 

That had been a half hour wasted. Sherlock had no doubt about what John would do, but his behaviour certainly made it difficult to deduce _how_ he would do it. It would a pleasure observing it. 

Though a pleasure Sherlock hoped would not last too long. 

The years had been easy. Now being in London with John knowing, being in each other’s lives again, the hours felt longer. The lust, so easy to control from afar, eating him, a constant burning within him. Any thought of John, John’s face, his body, the memory of his sigh when he came, made him harden. He needed John. His body needed John. 

\---

John’s bag was ready in the hall. Packed. It was all he had. Not much, but enough for a life of moving, starting over again and again. 

He sat in the living room. Staring into the emptiness. Doing what must be done. Taking the hurt. This time also causing it. But he had no choice. He had to. The sooner the better. 

Mary’s soft steps entering, pausing. Tears streaming down her face as she entered.  
“You’re really leaving me for that horrible man?”

John wanted to hold her, to make it all better. To say ‘no, of course not. I would never do that to you. I love you.’ 

He had to.

“I’m sorry, Mary.” 

She sat down, buried her face in her hands.  
“No, John, no, please. Don’t.”

“It’s not fair of me to hang on to you, when I can’t… be all yours. I’m bunking with Mike till I find a flat.”

Mary looked up.  
“You’re not going to him?”

“No. But I do love him.”

“Can’t we work things out? I don’t care if you love him as long as you stay here. Please, John.” 

He took her hand to his lips. How badly he wanted to say ‘yes’. 

“John, he is mean. He is cold. He doesn’t care if you are happy or not.”

“I know. I know, Mary. But I can’t stay with you when I know he is alive. It’s not fair,” John said. “You deserve someone who only thinks of you.”

“No, John, I love you. Don’t.”

“I’m so sorry.” 

The rain hadn’t stopped. John turned up his collars and walked to the tube.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock followed him. That night and many nights after it. 

John didn’t come back to him. Instead he proceeded with the divorce from Mary and got a miserable little bedsit for himself once again. 

John did come to Baker Street in the evenings to read, to watch the telly. To argue or just to listen. Phasing out staring at Sherlock’s lips or neck, his hands. Eyes focusing involuntarily on the zip of his trousers, so that Sherlock grew hard just by his look, making John blink, blush, turn his gaze away. 

John came to torture them both with his denials, his detachment. With his need for something they both knew Sherlock could not give. His desperate want for what Sherlock could give, but refusing it for both of them.

Sherlock’s approaches, questions, frustration was rebuked with a court ‘give it a rest’ and a change of topic. No explanation was given. 

Sherlock did not understand why the denial of something they both wanted and needed was necessary. 

But he knew how to wait. John would come around.

John tried to stay away. Managed it on average three nights a week with the knowledge that Sherlock would be watching him anyway. Couldn’t forgive. Couldn’t let go. Their lives in a stalemate. 

\---

They had had an early morning murder scene. John had slowly cut back on his hours at the surgery to be more and more involved with cases again. 

The weather was beautiful, first proper day of spring. Sun shining bright on winter’s dirt. The body surrounded by greening parkland. 

Sherlock concluded by midday that the murderer was one of the gardeners. He ran briskly to catch the man as he made his doomed attempt at escaping. 

From afar it looked more like a playful chase than serious detective work. The police were plenty at the scene, so John contended himself with admiring the sight.

Sherlock looked gorgeous when he paced back towards John. The cheeks red from the exercise, eyes shining from the excitement, the dark curls dishevelled. The smile of success on his lips.

Even from a distance John thought he could make out the faint scent of his sweat, unnoticeable to anyone else surely, but for him like a bright beacon.

“Didn’t bother helping then?” Sherlock smirked. 

“Nah, would’ve missed the scenery,” John winked.

“Anything particular?”

“Just the beauty of nature.”

Sherlock came to stand close in front of him, making John look up to see his eyes. 

“See anything you like?”

“All of it.”

Sherlock’s smile became even brighter. He turned, John followed. 

For once Sherlock’s hand was not pushed away when he put it on John’s thigh in the cab. It was even allowed to travel higher. John moving closer to him, head tilting towards him. 

Lips almost touching his neck. But not quite. A husky whisper in his ear.  
“Sherlock…”

“Mm?”

“Why can’t you just… admit you were wrong?”

John now leaning in on him, his fingers softly stroking Sherlock’s hand. Breath behind Sherlock’s ear.  
“Why can’t you apologise for hurting me?”

John’s hand on his inner thigh, fondling him, slowly moving higher.

Sherlock bit his lip. Hurting with want. He needed John. 

“What’s more important to you? Being right or being with me?” John’s lips mumbled against his neck. 

He closed his eyes, John’s hand burning on his thigh. Lips sending shivers all the way down to his groin. 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you. That’s not why I did it,” he managed in a protest of sorts. 

“I know. It’s no excuse.” John’s teeth biting his neck gently. “And you didn’t hurt only me. What you did also hurt Mary.”

“I don’t care about her,” Sherlock groaned.

John fondling his rock hard erection. He gasped. 

“But I do. And because you love me, you care about the people I care about.” 

John’s hand pressing in on him, the length of him. Lips on his neck.

“John,” he moaned softly.

“Why can’t you just say it?”

John pressing Sherlock’s hand against his own hard cock, making him feel how much John wanted him. 

“John, I’m…”

“I can’t hear you.” 

John’s hand under his shirt, fingers squeezing his nipple. 

“I’m sorry,” he whimpered.

“For what?”

John’s fingers on his zip.

“Oi! That’s far enough in me cab!”

With an embarrassed laugh John pulled away, mumbled an apology.

\---

At Baker Street John picked up his laptop and started scribbling notes on the case. Sherlock tuned his violin to think. The sun streamed in from the high windows, a trickle of dust dancing in its wake. 

As Saint-Saëns’ Romance in D flat major Op. 37 started flowing in the air, John’s typing ceased. He leaned his head against the back rest and closed his eyes. 

The music like a caress washing over John, carrying away the disappointment and hurt. The rays of sun warm on him. The scent of Sherlock on the coat thrown over the back of the seat. 

It was a long time since he had felt so relaxed and at ease. There was a faint smile on his lips he was unaware of. 

Sherlock kept his eyes on John. His fingers playing for him, on his body. The notes born from his touch for John. 

John looking so content, peaceful. The music taking him to a perfect calm. Soothing him, the notes as if fondling his face, a soft stroke on his head.

Sherlock saw it. Understood. He stopped the playing. 

“John,” Sherlock kneeled down in front of him, “I love you. Please, please forgive me for hurting you. I should not have put you through that. It was wrong. Please. I’m sorry.” His voice faltered and the last words were barely audible.

John put his hand on Sherlock’s face. Traced the line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, forefinger along his nose to the eyebrows. Cupped his head in his hand. 

Kissed Sherlock. With warm, loving lips, caressing Sherlock’s.

“I’m sorry, too. These past months… I… I’ve been too stubborn, too angry. I should’ve… I love you. Want you. I should’ve just got over it.”

“No, you were right. I needed to understand. I didn’t until I saw you happy again. You’ve been hurting so long… I had forgotten… I didn’t remember you happy, John. How could I have forgotten? It’s been so long… I’m sorry.”

Their lips met again.

“Come on,” John said taking Sherlock’s hand and leading them to the bedroom. 

Slowly he began unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt. Lips softly tucking Sherlock’s neck, the gradually revealed chest. 

As the shirt fell to the floor, he took Sherlock’s nipple in his mouth, almost bit into it, hand on Sherlock’s back to hold him close, to hold him steady. 

He opened the belt, the button of Sherlock’s trousers, slid the zip open. Let them fall, let Sherlock’s undies fall. 

Sherlock stepped out of them, naked, exposed. Ready for John to touch. Finally. 

The wait is over. 

John guided him on the bed, undressed himself quickly. Pressed against him. 

Their skins had missed each other. Longed for this moment. Their hips had needed this touch, incomplete without it. 

They kissed. Wet lips parting, tongues brushing. Sherlock shivering. 

Sherlock raised his hips, his legs, handed John the lube. He didn’t want to wait, not anymore.

John slid in slow, finding his way after all this time. Gasping in ecstasy, as deep as he could get. Sherlock wrapping arms around him. Legs pulling him further.

_I’ve missed you._

_I’ve missed you too. I’ve needed you._

Such languid pushes, enjoying every inch. Feeling all of it. 

Body, mind filling with that one point of contact. With the millions of points of contact as their bodies pressed, forced themselves against each other. 

There was only the one body. Rocking quietly, swaying violently. Low grunts, murmurs, whispers of unintelligible words. 

Fingers locking. Lips on neck. Mouth gasping. 

No hurry. This moment to last forever. As one.


	6. Chapter 6

Two naked bodies wrapped in each other. Hard to tell where one begun and the other ended. 

Sherlock was the first to wake up from their nap. His arm was numb from John lying on it, but he didn’t want to move. 

He reached out to touch John’s back. Forefinger tracing the shoulder blades. Following the length of his spine. Palm spreading on his buttock, squeezing lightly. 

John stirred. Moved closer. Lips searching for skin. Finding it on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

Teeth biting gently sending a wave of arousal on Sherlock. Shaking him. 

He rolled John over, took a nipple in his mouth, between the teeth. Caressed the insides of his thighs. John smiling lazily, still in the post-sleep haze. 

Lips tracing John’s body. The neck tilting back, a nibble on the earlobe. John sighing. Happy.

Sherlock bit his neck, left his mark on it. Wanted to claim John’s body as his own again. 

He took a rough hold of John’s hips. Forced them against the mattress as his lips, teeth flowed along John’s torso.

This was his body. His only. He would erase the memory of anyone else’s touch from it. 

Hands stroking John’s thighs, hips. Squeezing his abdomen. Lips sucking his neck, grazing it, as if trying to pull a piece apart.

“Oh, that hurts,” John moaned but didn’t resist.

He pressed himself against John. Covered him completely. John bucking up against him. But his hips strong holding John down.

Thighs, legs against each other. Holding John’s hand in his, arms aligned.

“Who do you belong to?” he whispered.

“You, only you, always you,” John panted. 

Sherlock bit his earlobe, turned him over. John letting out the tiniest yelp as he was thrown around on the bed. 

He caressed John’s back. Lips now soft, gentle on it. _Here, here I haven’t touched yet. This, I haven’t reclaimed yet._

Going over John’s body like a proprietor inspecting his possession. Biting, kissing, touching, stroking. All of John. His. His only.

Spreading the buttocks, teeth on them. Hands on inner thighs. And slowly, slowly inserting one lubed finger. 

John shivered, lifted his hips in anticipation. _Here, here she hasn’t been. Ever. It’s mine, mine only._

Another finger. John’s breath heavy, quiet curses against the pillow, hips pushing up, making the fingers enter deeper. 

Brushing John’s prostate, making him shake. Moan Sherlock’s name in ecstasy. Pleading with him.

“Please, Sherlock, just fuck me already.”

No.

Lifting John’s hips higher. Wrapping a fist around his cock. Tight. Hard. John at his mercy. 

Jerking John, fucking him with his fingers. John begging to be fucked.

No.

Faster, harder, the grip around John firmer. The pressure on his prostate almost constant. Forcing him to come.

There. John’s back arching, his body freezing. A muffled sigh.

Now. He didn’t let John recover, but pushed in his tight arse. John cursed.

He was close already, wanted to fuck John hard, deep. Rough. Held on to John’s hips while pushing further. Speeding up. John around his cock. In John. 

John’s back spreading out in front of him.  
“Do you love me?” he hissed.

“Yes, yes! I love you!” John groaned, a hint of pain in his voice after all the time since he was last fucked, a lot of pleasure, after the long time. 

The colours went out from the world, a curtain closed, the bright lights blazed. He fell against John. Face against his neck. 

John chuckled quietly. Pleased with having pleased him.

He pulled out, sighed. Stayed lying on top of John. 

_There will never be anyone but you. There will be no one else’s touch ever again. This skin is yours. This body. Yours to touch only._

_The scent. Meant to make you come._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. Not my best, but at least it's done. :) Merry Christmas!


End file.
